


Deteriorata

by princeofhell777



Category: Casino Royale (2006), Charlie Countryman (2013)
Genre: Electrical torture, Human Trafficking, Other, Torture, Torture Porn, shock collar, that's what this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:29:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25392394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeofhell777/pseuds/princeofhell777
Summary: Essentially just a self indulgent fic where Le Chiffre gets captured and sold to Nigel. That's all I got, if that's not your cup of tea, feel free to ignore it.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	Deteriorata

The smell of sweat permeated the air of the room that Jean knelt in. The blindfold over his eyes was taut and felt as though it was made of a sack from the texture that scratched. Something was written on his bare chest, he could feel it, though he couldn’t identify the words. His slacks barely clung together through their rips, and the way he had been forced to kneel did nothing to help ease them. 

He’d been kidnapped roughly three days ago, from what he could tell by the dryness of the mouth and hunger in his stomach. He was given an IV, he assumed, for he still felt in relatively good shape, though lax. There must have been a sedative in combination. 

It wasn’t difficult to infer where he was, either. He could feel the presence of people around him, though the ringing in his ears muffled most of the words that they were saying. The marker felt new on his chest, meaning he must not have been there long, even if he wasn’t consciously aware of being there at all. 

He felt a cold hand touch his jaw and attempted to bite at it as some way of retaliation, though a thick rope around his neck tightened in a warning when he moved. Whoever held him hostage likely did not care for his comfort, and certainly would not supply an inhaler. He needed to be careful with his oxygen. 

Several hands ghosted over his face for some time, prying his mouth open despite his disgust. He felt like something on display, an object to be purchased and inspected for it’s condition. He had a feeling that he wasn’t far off in his gut feeling.

The sound of a bell after some time brought him back to attention. His hearing had come back enough to hear murmuring, but he couldn’t quite make out the words of his captors. He was unarmed, his hands tied behind his back and a rope around his neck- he felt naked without his knives, and he had nothing to use as leverage. He sat and waited, certainly knowing the odds of acting out in a room that seemed so full.

An auctioneer's voice pierced his ears, words speeding by his already drug-induced slowed comprehension. He heard his alias in there somewhere - Le Chiffre - followed by bidding. His suspicions had been proven true, but there was certainly no use fighting in the middle of this.

The language of the auctioneer didn’t occur to Jean for some time, not that it was exactly important to him. He knew Romanian well enough to speak it semi-fluently, so he should have no trouble even if they were speaking fast. But that gave him at least some insight into a location and a plan for escape.

By the time he heard the word “vândut!”, everything was swimming, and he felt as though he was going to become unconscious again. Whatever drugs he had been given were strong, clearly, and prevented him from adequately fighting as he was dragged off of the podium.

The next time Jean came to, it was in an even more unfamiliar location. His blindfold was gone, but he felt his arms still tied behind him. He was laying on a hard floor, his side likely bruised from the position. 

“You are the stupidest goddamn-”

“It’s not like it was my intention to win! Fucking hell, can’t a guy have a little fun?”

“A little fun doesn’t cost us hundreds of thousands of fucking dollars!”

“No need to be so fucking stuck up, I’m sure he can be useful, somehow. Leverage- I’ve never heard of the fucker, but I’m sure he’s got some powerful enemies or allies or something.”

A boot pressed itself to Jean’s temple and rolled him over slightly as he opened his eyes, setting in an angry gaze, “He’s up. Weren’t lying about that eye.”

Jean debated what he could possibly do- there was always a choice of remaining silent in retaliation, or of fighting back. Given that there wasn’t any sort of an inhaler near him, and they likely didn’t know of his condition, so he hardly had a good chance to fight.

He kept the glare up, then, managing to sit up though his wrists were tied. The boot that had been on him before was back on his chest, pushing him back down to lay there, “Stay fucking down. Don’t make any fast movements or I’ll put you out myself.”

Jean looked up properly only to see a gun pointed at him. The tip of the barrel was black from use- this man was no stranger to “putting out” people, it was clear. 

His eyes drifted to his captors. The man with the gun stood over him, blonde hair fanning out at his neck- it was combed, but hardly more was done to it, and Jean would be surprised if this man had been introduced to shampoo. The tattoo on his neck stuck out against his skin, accentuating the curve of his throat. 

The man who stood behind him, clearly irritated, seemed a bit more put together, though it was difficult to tell. His hair was cropped short and his skin lacked any visible scarring or tattooing. Clearly, this man was dangerous as well, not unlike those that Jean worked with himself. Of course, he usually knew how those situations would end before he even approached them. 

He was no stranger to kidnapping, though he was usually on the other side, and he knew that he was unlikely to survive if he didn’t comply. However, he hadn’t been questioned yet. No one seemed to even care who he was, which certainly was new. He had plenty of people who would want him dead, but this man doesn’t seem to.

That was confirmed in his dialogue from before, but Jean had doubted his sincerity. He wasn’t exactly used to being unknown. 

After what seemed like much too much silence, Nigel began to speak. 

“You can get the fuck out, Darko, I”ll figure out whatever I have to do with him.” With little actual goodbyes, Jean watched the dark haired man leave, now left alone with this one. It should feel better, but Jean really only felt further cornered. 

He turned to Jean, deciding he actually did need to pay him some mind, “Fucking hell. Now I’ve got you to deal with. Get up. Might as well make you useful while we figure out what to do with you.”

Jean didn’t answer, but he didn’t stand either. Though his health and safety was on the line, his pride crossed it, winning him over. He wasn’t one to follow orders, and he wasn’t going to start taking them from some greasy fuckhead with a gun. 

However, that greasy fuckhead with a gun also had a short fuse when it came to his anger, and he smacked Jean across the face with the butt of his gun, leaving a thick bruise to his already blood-crusted left cheek. Jean didn’t make a sound at the pain.

Nigel stooped down and gripped him by the hair, yanking it to make him sit up and face him. “Night night, princess. Got to figure out what the fuck to do with you, and I can’t have you annoying the shit out of me while I’m working.” 

Jean saw the butt of the gun coming towards him, and then nothing.

Jean figured he’d grown used to this. Waking up wherever he was maneuvered, but it wasn’t as though he enjoyed it. He was on cement, he felt that this time. His destroyed slacks were gone, as well as the garments beneath him. All that was left on him was a heavy metal collar, a flashing light on the side of it.

He sat in a small room, dark aside from the bit of light coming from under a door in front of him- it was no doubt fortified with metal, simply from the thickness, and Jean had no hope of getting out through that. 

He then noticed a few items laid out on the ground, and a pit formed in his stomach. A plate of food was the first, no doubt necessary, given that he hadn’t eaten in a few days, likely, but the other felt far more sinister. His inhaler sat on the ground, giving him a clue that who he was could hardly be a secret any longer. 

The price on his head was no doubt incredibly high, so he could see why he might have been left alive, but this simply felt like cruel teasing more than anything.

If the food was poisoned, it hardly worried him, and he sat as well as he could without feeling indecent, eating off of the plate with his hands simply because he wasn’t given any utensils. He felt like an animal, but he wasn’t exactly going to allow himself a slow death by starvation. He’d take the poison over that. 

Jean stood, taking the inhaler in his hand and paced around the room. It wasn’t large, and the more he examined it, the more it felt like a prison cell. Well, if one could even call it that. There was a drain in the floor and a hose on the wall, indicating that he could wash, but that was about all the room had to offer, other than concrete floors and walls. 

He turned on the water, and it felt nice. The crusted blood on his face could finally come off, as well as the words on his chest- he could read them, now that he could see. “DETERIORAT - OCHIUL STANG”, or “DAMAGED - LEFT EYE”. Jean let out a sigh as he let the water run over him. The metal collar around his neck seemed unbothered by the water. 

Soaked hair hardly worried Jean, the temperature was surprisingly warm, if this were some sort of prison. He was hardly cold, though he was completely bare. 

It seemed to be less than an hour later when the door opened, the blonde man that he had met before stepping inside. Jean was standing now, feeling much more fit than he had previously, and even more defiant, his pride restored. 

“Alright, fucker, listen here.” The man started, his tone gruff and almost frustrated. Jean figured it was a marital issue, given the state of the ring on his finger. “You’re not in charge here, don’t care how much of a fucking math genius you are. You listen to me, you don’t get hurt, got it?”

Jean raised an eyebrow, deciding to humor him for a moment, “Listen to you? I hardly even have a name for you.”

“Nigel. My name is fucking Nigel. Don’t get cocky with questions.” Nigel made a motion with his hand, before placing it into his pocket. “I want you to stand up against the wall. Put your hands at your sides.”

Jean gave out a chuckle, before it felt like his air was being cut off. A harsh shock ran through his body, starting at his neck, and sent him to his knees. He let out a groan of surprise, panting with his head hanging. He had to take a puff from his inhaler, unable to catch his breath. 

Nigel smirked, a remote in his hand as he pulled it out of his pocket, “I told you the rules. You do what I say, you don’t get hurt. Now get the fuck up, I’m not dealing with any shit from you.”

Jean glared, but brought himself to stand on shaking legs. He didn’t move back towards the wall, however, unwilling to budge on that. When Nigel ordered him again, he received another painful shock- he was silent this time, but he gritted his teeth in pain. When he didn’t stand up within a minute, Nigel delivered a more painful one that caused the man to cry out, panting and resting his forehead on the floor. 

This went on for nearly an hour, and though Jean was screaming by the end, he hardly caved, and it seemed that Nigel had gotten bored of him, leaving him to lay on the ground in an attempt to recover.

Jean was fairly out of commission, and he didn’t know how long it was until Nigel came back, but likely long enough for him to have slept. He was given another instruction, one that seemed to have no meaning, but Jean refused to do it, his pride too strong. 

It took two weeks of this before Jean even followed one of Nigel’s instructions, in too much pain to avoid sitting against the wall in a lotus position. It was worth it to make the pain stop. He watched Nigel’s grin as he pressed the button again and walked away.

Days seemed to go by without Jean allowing them to, passing before his eyes without giving him an ability to process or consider them. He could have been there weeks, or months, and he never really would have known. Not until he heard gunshots outside, and the door was kicked open by the familiar face of one of his employees. 

Jean continued his job as usual once he was back, refusing any sort of recovery period with the insistence that he was fine. And he was. Physically, he was hardly injured at all. He had his medic look him over, and he was fine.

He was cleaning the blood off of his hands when he heard a knock at his hotel door. He hadn’t been staying there even a day, and he wouldn't be there any longer. It was only that he was unhappily interrupted that he needed to kill anyone. He finished cleaning before he bothered to answer the door, simply seeing a package sitting there. He took it inside. 

No one questioned the way that Jean looked. No one looked at him the wrong way without fearing for their life. But a thick metal ring around his neck was notable to everyone at the poker table, particularly a man sitting far at the back, looking out of place. 

Nigel wore a suit that likely cost the same amount as one of Jean’s socks, but the grin on his face was worth millions as he sat the controller to the collar on the table in front of him. Jean had a game to play, and so did Nigel.


End file.
